REVIEW: The City & The City - China Miéville

• Year first released:  2009
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780345497512
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Ballantine Books
• My rating (out of 5):  3

The City & The City is one of those books that tries very hard to defy classification. I borrowed it from the library, where it was labelled as a fantasy. I can't agree with this genre, though. I've also seen it referred to as a sci-fi in several places - definitely also a fallacy. I suppose that, primarily, we could call it a mystery - the plot, at least, is a crime drama - but the setting of the book is unlike anything else you've come across in a mystery - enough so, that somehow calling the book a mystery feels misleading. Rather, the setting would fall squarely into the realm of magic realism...except that there's nothing actually magical or supernatural about it.

Confusing, I know.

Now then. Since the main conceit of the book revolves around this setting, I'll attempt to describe it for you:

There's really no easy way to explain it - and Miéville takes almost the entirety of the book to slowly work through the intricacies of this setup - but The City & The City takes place in two cities: the average, everyday, European city of Besźel; and the higher-class, cleaner (and also European) city of Ul Qoma.

The catch to all of this, you ask?

Besźel and Ul Qoma occupy the same space geographically. They have most of the same streets, parks, even buildings. A person walking on the sidewalk might be in one city, or he might be in the other. There is no separating wall, no change in climate, no distance between them.

The only separation between the two cities are psychological and legal. The citizens of each city are taught to completely ignore all of the facets of the other city - the other citizens, the other buildings, the other trees. They must, by law, "unsee" (or "unhear," "unsmell," etc.) every single aspect of the other city. And "breaching" this ignorance is a crime that comes with severe penalties.

Travelling into the other city is an intricate, time-consuming affair. A passport must be secured and an intense orientation process completed. The irony is that, in order to "travel" to the other city, one must drive all the way to and through a border checkpoint and, for all intents and purposes, make a u-turn. Now that you've "entered" the other city, though - even though you're literally still driving on the same street you were before the border crossing - all of your "unseeing" must be done in reverse: you must ignore all of the people and buildings and landmarks you're used to, and instead focus only on these elements of the other city.

A small example: partway through the book, the main character, Tyador (who is a police officer in Besźel), must cross into Ul Qoma. There, he begins working with an Ul Qoman detective. At dinner one night, the two discover that they live just down the street from each other. Having "unseen" each other all their lives, though, they were never aware of the other's existence - nor even the existence of the other person's house.

Weird.

Of course there's nothing even remotely similar to this in our world to which we might compare the cities. As a reader, the concept takes some getting used to. It is certainly one that requires you to activate your suspension of disbelief. And if for no reason other than exploring this fascinating idea - seeing all the explanations for it, all the little details and ways in which it plays out - it's worth suspending it.

This is the world of The City & The City. After all that description, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how deeply imaginative the entire thing is; it is, without a doubt, the best part of the book.

This statement, though, is actually good and bad. Miéville clearly went to incredible lengths to create such a phenomenal world, only to populate it with average characters and a mildly above average murder mystery. It almost feels as though the twin-city setting of City is too good to have been spent on all of the other elements that go into the book.

To be fair, the parts of the murder mystery which directly tie into the twin cities are certainly unique and interesting. The way the investigation has to proceed, the limits of the detective's authority, the legal loopholes that are exploited by various characters - these items are fascinating, and show just how much thought and care Miéville put into the book. They're just not quite enough to make up for the other elements of the book as a whole.

I hope I'm not making the book sound like a complete loss. The twin-city concept alone made it worth reading. If Miéville were to write another book that takes place in Besźel/Ul Qoma, I would absolutely check it out. I just hope that, in such a case, the plot would be more up to speed with the phenomenal setting.

REVIEW: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• Year first released:  1818
• ISBN of the edition I read: 
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Signet Classic
• My rating (out of 5):  5

Frankenstein's nameless monster, pleading with us, 

wondering how we've come to misunderstand the original story so badly.

Now that I’ve read both The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Frankenstein in close proximity to another, I realize that each suffers from the opposite problem of the other. As I explained in my review of Jekyll and Hyde,

[W]hat most people consider to be the heart of the story is actually left a complete mystery from the reader until over two-thirds of the way into the book. Nowadays, you go into the book knowing precisely what Dr. Jekyll is up to, when his actions are intended to be shrouded in a deep, eerie mystery - and, in fact, are meant to be the ultimate twist of the book.

In other words, most people nowadays already know the biggest secret/climax of the book before they even pick it up.

Frankenstein suffers from the obverse of this: what you think is the climax actually happens only a quarter of the way into the book.

Most modern adaptions of Frankenstein present us with the long-bearing struggle of Dr. Frankenstein as he tries, fails, tries again to create a monster – all the while growing insane, digging up graves, and being hounded by suspicious villagers/police officers – until, finally, just in time for the perfect thunder storm, he is able to accomplish the feat with a suspiciously timed lightning bolt striking his lab. “It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!”

And then he says, “Oops,” and the monster kills him. Or something like that.

…yeah, except none of that happens in the original. Like…none of that. No, really: none.

The edition I read of the book was 223 pages long. In it, Dr. Frankenstein succeeds at creating the monster on page 55. And neither before nor after this feat are we given scenes of police dodging, corpse desecrating, villagers mobbing, or storms lightninging. (Yes, I know that's not a word, but you get the point.)

Oh, and there's no hunchbacked assistant named Igor. Nor just a hunchback. Nor just an assistant. Nor just an Igor. But that's neither here nor there.

Weird how things evolve like this.

In fact, as you might suspect from everything I’ve explained so far, the actual creation of the monster is a far cry from the real heart of the book. Rather, the weight of the plot rests on what happens to the monster – and to its creator Dr. Frankenstein – after the monster is made (and immediately escapes). And it’s in this tale where the book truly shines, whilst simultaneously frightening us.

The fact that Dr. Frankenstein is able to create life out of non-life is certainly interesting, but not necessarily frightening on its own. What becomes of his new breed of life, though...

Well.

It’s one thing for a book to show us the inner workings – and, by extension, the inner depravity – of man. This is, for example, what Jekyll and Hyde excelled at so fantastically. In Frankenstein, though, Shelley creates for us a monster made in the image of man, but which is not a man – and, in so doing, creates for us a powerful exploration of many of the other ways in which depravity can take shape, while also serving as a perfect parallel to man himself, in his glory and gluttony. 

The monster's arc is a clear highlight of the book. Yes, the monster is certainly criminal, but his rise and fall - his misunderstandings about how the world works, the complete lack of compassion and empathy he is shown at every turn - make us wonder who is really at fault here. In fact, as Frankenstein himself wonders aloud time and again, we are forced to ask how deep the fault actually lies on him. What line has he crossed? Are the blood of the monster’s victims actually on Frankenstein’s hands? Is it ever okay to play god like this?

Taking the novel to be a look at both blind ambition and moral ambiguity, it would be harder to find a more fitting tale – which is, no doubt, what continues to make it such a powerful, lasting book 199 years after it was first published. 

REVIEW: Lockdown (Escape from Furnace 1) – Alexander Gordon Smith

• Year first released:  2009
• ISBN of the edition I read:  0312611935
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Square Fish
• My rating (out of 5):  2.5

  

I've always been a believer in "young adult" books not only being for teenagers. Of course the Hunger Games and Twilight series are highly popular with adults as much as teens (even though at least one of those really really shouldn't be - but I won't say which *cough, cough* Twilight *cough, cough*), and I would argue strongly that Paper Towns by John Green is just as applicable to adults as it is to the younger crowds it was theoretically aimed at.

Then I come across a book like Lockdown, and I remember that, actually, some books really are for one specific demographic. I can imagine my 14-year-old self enjoying Lockdown immensely. It has a gritty, action-packed, thrilling story in an imaginative, disturbing setting, and with a main character who is at least half a step deeper than the protagonist of many other teen thrillers. 

Really, Lockdown wasn't bad. It didn't do anything unforgivable. The mystery it builds and the curiosity it inspires are admirable. But its constant stream of - and overt reliance on - testosterone and adrenaline really drive the point home that Gordon Smith was unmistakably trying to appeal to just one particular group of people (12-17 year-old boys, give or take). 

Perhaps it is not fair of me to judge the book too harshly. It wasn't written for me - and so, if I don't like it, this doesn't actually say anything against the book as a whole, does it? We might say that I wasn't, per se, meant to like the book.

Here are the things I can say about it, with at least a little less bias:

• The book does a good job of creating a sense of claustrophobia. Its prison setting - both in appearance and in the society that inhabits it - is strongly developed and suffocatingly small (in a good way). 
• The overall story kept me interested throughout the book, but the twists and tropes it employs (who lives and dies, the pace at which the events unfold, etc.) were overly transparent. Though I still don't know what's lying at the heart of the mystery (this was only the first book in the series), the types of events were rather predictable. 
• Gordon Smith's writing style was tense and atmospheric, but not particularly unique in any other way. Also, it suffered from as many run-on sentences as the worst of Suzanne Collins' books. (Seriously: why is it okay for young adult books to be littered with so many run-ons? How disappointing. No wonder people don't know how to use commas and semi-colons anymore.)
• In theme, plot, and overall content, Lockdown bears a striking resemblance to the much-more popular Maze Runner series by James Dashner. That said, I'd happily suggest Lockdown before Maze Runner. Though Lockdown doesn't transcend its demographic (neither did Maze Runner), it at least fixes many of the egregious errors of Dashner's book.

All in all, I can maybe see myself picking up volume two at some point in the future, but I doubt I'll make it through all six volumes of the series. It's interesting, but not six-books interesting. (To be fair, I can't think of any story which is worth being six books long.)

If you're a 12-17 year old boy*, I'd wager you would enjoy this book quite a bit. If you're not that demographic, though, then...meh. If the premise really sounds interesting to you (or if, for some reason, you enjoyed The Maze Runner), then sure, give it a shot. It's a rather quick read, at least - you won't lose too much of your life to it. But I can think of several other books - even similarly-themed young adult books - that I'd recommend before Lockdown.

*My apologies; I don't mean to play a gender-roles card here. Let me instead say: If you're a 12-17 year-old reader who enjoys actiony, adrenaline-packed thrillers, I'd wager you would enjoy this book quite a bit.

Fair?

REVIEW: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louis Stevenson

• Year first released:  1866
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780451523631
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Signet Classics 
• My rating (out of 5):  5

  

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde sits in a rather unique – and deeply unfortunate – place amongst horror novels:

Everyone knows (or thinks they know) the story of Jekyll and Hyde. This may sound like a good thing for Stevenson, to be so well-known and to have created such a lasting, timeless book. But therein is precisely the problem. Everyone already knows the story – which means that most all the mystery is gone from the narrative. Case in point: what most people consider to be the heart of the story is actually left a complete mystery from the reader until over two-thirds of the way into the book. Nowadays, you go into the book knowing precisely what Dr. Jekyll is up to, when his actions are intended to be shrouded in a deep, eerie mystery - and, in fact, are meant to be the ultimate twist of the book.

Did you know, in fact, that Dr. Jekyll isn’t the main character of the book? – rather, it is a lawyer friend of Jekyll’s by the name of Utterson.

And we all know that Hyde is notorious for committing a wealth of crimes and evil deeds. And yet, in actual fact, he commits only one murder and a couple of assaults – and, contrary to nearly every contemporary portrayal, never engages the services of a prostitute. (Of course the murder and assaults are bad enough. I just mean to say that he’s not the depraved serial killer/lusty pervert that most modern renderings would have us believe.)

All of these things are altogether too bad, because the book is fascinating and much more intricately crafted than you could know without having actually read it for yourself. If you can set aside what you think you know of the story, the unraveling of the mystery is highly clever – moving around in time, bringing in various characters to impart their sides of the story, etc. Stevenson’s descriptions are perfectly spot-on. He does an excellent job of recreating London for us, as well as showing us both the physical and mental differences between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

It is very difficult to find a better pure horror novel than The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s not, per se, the scariest book out there, but there’s no reason it needs to be – its unsettling nature and philosophical implications put it in a class of its own, and its succinctness, powerful descriptions, and psychological exploration place it in the highest order of horror literature.

REVIEW: Death with Interruptions - Jose Saramago

• Year first released:  2005 (Portuguese), 2008 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780151012749
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
• My rating (out of 5):  3.5

I included Jose Saramago in my list of favorite authors. Though that’s certainly still true – and, I suspect, always will be – Death with Interruptions was more hit-and-miss than usual for him. Actually, to be more specific, it’s hit then miss.

Interruptions carries a tone much like all of Saramago’s other books. As usual, he takes a highly serious subject matter, sprinkles in a healthy dose of humor, and provides innumerable observations about what humanity really is when stripped to its core – the good, the bad, and all the sincerity and hilarity in between. This formula is present all throughout, and works just as well as it always does for Saramago.

His style is consistent here as well: The book is long-winded, with sentences that can go on for pages and a complete disregard for the proper use of punctuation. (In particular, he doesn’t use quotation marks for dialogue, and those multi-page long sentences are, unsurprisingly, terrible run-ons.) Other authors can’t always pull off these items as well, but Saramago is able to make this form work surprisingly – and consistently – well.

But now I must explore why Interruptions is hit-then-miss.

The premise is rather simple: one day, nobody dies. For reasons which no one can identify, death simply stops performing her millennia-long duty. For better or worse, this trend carries on for months.

The first half of the book comes together exceedingly well. Using a highly unique approach, Saramago shows us the sorts of consequences this sudden deathlessness has for the people of the unnamed country in which the book takes place. (It is certainly European, but likely not meant to be a real country.) Specifically, the first half of the book shows us all of these scenes and ideas without presenting us with any characters to speak of. Yes, there are plenty of people in the book – the prime minister, the king, a reporter, a Catholic cardinal, a group of philosophers, a funeral director, etc. But these people aren’t characters so much as they are examples. None of them have names. We don’t follow any of their individual stories or personalities as such; rather, they merely enter the page in order to highlight the unfolding of the story, and are usually forgotten once their time is done. (Much like most humans throughout history, you might notice – an absolutely brilliant move on Saramago’s part.)

For readers who enjoy books with deep characters, this description may sound off-putting. It is certainly unorthodox, but actually works fantastically. This is a what-if novel, a story about the types of things that might happen in this given scenario. And, as Saramago masterfully shows us, including individual personalities might actually gum up the works a bit. Who specifically is involved doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; the story is what matters here.

Now then. Everything I’ve just described is the “hit” of the book. It is also, unfortunately, only the first half of it.

Almost exactly halfway through the text, death herself (yes, her, and yes, with a lowercase ‘d’) appears. Her first appearance is actually a highlight of the book; I rather enjoyed the way Saramago first introduces her into the folds of the story.

But then she stays. And then she comes across one human who, for some reason, seems untouchable by her. We still don’t have a name for this mysterious person (he is only known as “the cellist”), but he, too, becomes a focus throughout the remainder of the book.

I fear that this sudden introduction of two particular characters who take up the entirety of the second half of the book strips away what made the first half work so well. 

Granted, the story of death and the cellist is interesting. We wonder who this man is, why he seems to be untouchable to death, and what sort of revelations we’ll be privy to as the plot evolves. In fact, in another book, I’d have been happy to read this story.

And yet, in Interruptions, after first experiencing half of the book in a particular way with a particular focus, the story of the cellist feels out of place. Why should we have a what-if novel profoundly devoid of individual personalities, then suddenly have the narration laser-focus in on one person? What happened to the idea that personalities aren't what matter in this hypothetical scenario? 

Interruptions, then, comes across as two novels which share a premise and a chronology, but which ultimately have different things to say. Each works on its own, but together, they just don’t jive.